


the bookshop

by bluebeholder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bookstore Owner Hermione Granger, Cuddling, Domesticity, Engagement, F/M, Fluff, No Ron-Bashing, Post-Graduation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Years after the war, Hermione has retreated from the public eye to own a bookshop in Diagon Alley. This is where Viktor Krum finds her. It is also where they fall in love all over again.





	the bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY SURVIVAL DAY, PYXYL!!!! This fic is my sister’s graduation present. It features all of the things she’s ever wanted in a Krumione fic. (And some things that *I* want, because dammit if I’m going to start with Harry Potter fic then I’m going to go all the way.)

The sign over the door of the bookshop is green, with bright gilt letters: A Hundred A.B.C.’s. The young man, wearing robes that passerby immediately understand to be foreign in style, hesitates. The windows are full of books, unassuming, and yet his nerves seize with a sudden fear. Will she remember him? He could turn away now and she would be none the wiser. But no: he has never been a coward, and he does not intend to begin now.

As he steps into the cool darkness of the bookshop, much more pleasant than the bright August heat of London outside the door, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. He is surrounded by books—the walls are invisible behind shelf after shelf of every size and kind of book, from thin paperback novels to weighty academic tomes. It seems almost like a castle, a fortification of paper and ink. The sharp smell of ginger overlays the clean, musty smell of paper. And there she is, behind the counter, completely unaware of him, reading a book. She’s wearing Muggle clothes, and it suits her so much better than the robes he’s always seen her wearing before. She is perhaps a little thin, looking not quite underfed, but that might just be the slimness that sometimes comes with age. The warm walnut of her skin is echoed in the color of the bookshelves that surround her, giving her a sense of absolute belonging. Her chin rests on her hand like some woman in a classical painting, her wand resting on the counter beside her. She is tranquil and more lovely than he remembered, and for a moment he almost turns and runs away. 

He approaches the counter with intense trepidation. “Hello, Hermione,” he says.

She jumps, reaching for her wand, before she truly sees him, and when she does she stills. “Oh my,” she says. “Viktor?”

For a moment he seems to have forgotten his own name. And then he shakes himself. “Ah, yes,” he says. “I have—I came to see you.”

“You—to see me?” Hermione looks like she’s been struck between the eyes with a Stunning Spell.

“Of course,” Viktor says. He is not a man of words and so he is floundering. His plans never got him farther than the door of the bookshop. 

“This isn’t that famous of a shop,” Hermione says in a faint voice. She is staring at him, dark eyes fixed upon his face with something that might very well be panic. 

Viktor shakes his head. “I did not come here for the shop,” he says clumsily, “I came here for you.”

It seems that Hermione is as lost for words as Viktor is, which is shocking. Her gift of language is one of surpassing greatness and to see her this way is as much of a shock as being here at all. “Well—it is good to see you,” Hermione says at last. “I hope the trip wasn’t too terrible.”

“A fine journey,” Viktor says. “I have a good broomstick.”

“You took a broomstick all the way from Bulgaria?” Hermione looks horrified, and he is relieved that her tone is back to something he remembers well. “Whatever were you thinking?” 

“I could not Apparate such a distance, and I have no friends in London to ask for a Portkey,” Viktor says with a shrug.

Hermione huffs, folding her arms. “You might have written to me.”

“I did not know if you would want to see me,” Viktor confesses.

“Why...Viktor, you’re my friend,” Hermione says. “Of course I’d want to see you.”

It’s been years since their last meeting. Viktor had heard, distantly of course, of Hermione’s life. It was a fact that playing a major role in the defeat of Voldemort had made her (and all of her compatriots) as much of a celebrity as Harry Potter himself. So he’d heard all about Hermione’s whirlwind romance with Ron Weasley. About her exploits as a reporter for the Daily Prophet, about her appointment within the Ministry of Magic, about her brief stint as a celebrated liaison to the MACUSA, about her meteoric rise to power, about her potential to become the most popular Minister of Magic in history. And, of course, about her sudden disappearance from the public eye. 

And then had come the news that Ron Weasley had quietly married one Lavender Brown in a private ceremony. The Daily Prophet (and every other newspaper in the wizarding world) had been in hysterics for weeks, speculating on how his relationship with Hermione had collapsed, but the furor had died down. That was when Viktor had decided to come and see her. It had taken a lot of searching to discover that she owned a bookshop in Diagon Alley, but now…here he is. 

He’s been silent for too long, and Hermione is giving him a worried look. “You should…I would like to see the things you are working on,” Viktor says.

“Oh! Yes,” Hermione says, jumping to her feet. He’d forgotten how small she is, so large does she loom in his memory. Her bushy hair adds height, but she really is barely up to his shoulder. “Let me show you around a bit.”

Viktor follows her. There is a nervous energy about her, as she flits from one shelf to the next, talking about how she’d come into ownership of the shop and why she’d wanted to run a bookshop in the first place. “I stock Muggle books, too,” Hermione says. “Because Flourish and Blott’s doesn’t, and the wizarding community honestly deserves better. I find it positively reprehensible that more wizards don’t learn about Muggle society! Muggle Studies is the worst class at Hogwarts. It’s never once in history been taught by a Muggle-born witch, did you know that? It ought to be taught by someone who knows what they’re doing! And it ought to be required yearly, just like Defense Against the Dark Arts. I just can’t understand it.”

“Perhaps you should apply to Hogwarts as the Muggle Studies teacher,” Viktor offers.

Hermione stops in place and looks up at him. “I couldn’t do that,” she says. “I wouldn’t be a very good teacher. Not like Harry or Neville.”

Oh yes, Viktor had forgotten. The two great heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom, had shocked the entire wizarding world by deciding not to become Aurors. Instead, they’d both gone to teach at Hogwarts: Neville as a Herbology professor, Harry as a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Viktor quite approves. He doesn’t want to be an Auror, either. “I think you’d be a fine teacher,” he tells Hermione. “After all, I learned more English from you than I ever did from the professor at Durmstrang.”

Viktor can’t quite tell, in the dim light of the bookshop, but it appears that Hermione might be flustered. Her skin is dark, but not enough to hide a blush. “Well—thank you,” she says. “That means quite a lot, you know.”

For a moment, Viktor doesn’t know what to do. It seems that Hermione doesn’t, either. They simply look at each other for a moment, and Viktor rather wishes that his courage hadn’t just abandoned him at the door.

Then Hermione turns away with a small shake. “If you came to a bookshop, you should leave with a book,” she says firmly. “Is there anything you like?”

“I don’t read much,” Viktor says. He hesitates, then takes the plunge: “Pick something for me.”

“All right,” Hermione says. She folds her arms and scans the shelves with narrowed eyes. She heads for the section labeled “Poetry” and pulls down a small volume, handing it to Viktor. “Here. This is one of my favorites.”

Viktor takes the book and looks down at it. T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962. “Thank you,” he says. “I will enjoy it. How much—”

“I’m not going to make you pay for it,” Hermione says with a small laugh. “You’re my friend.”

Feeling intensely daring, Viktor places a hand on her shoulder. “Then thank you again,” he says. 

Hermione nods. “Of course,” she says in that faint voice again. 

He doesn’t want to leave, but it feels like there’s very little to be said after that, and so he does go. He walks back to the Leaky Cauldron, where he’s taken a room, and immediately sits down to read the book. It’s not the poetry he was expecting—Viktor wasn’t lying, he doesn’t read much and the last poetry he’d really seen had been at Durmstrang with a professor whose last knowledge of English literature was some time in the 17th century—but it’s poetry all the same. He suspects he’s missing nuances that Hermione would understand. But as he’s sitting there, Viktor can’t help but imagine Hermione’s hands turning the pages, Hermione turning the words over and over and uncovering the magic in them as if they’re spells, and he thinks that whatever he’s missing is more than made up for by this.

***

Hermione doesn’t expect it when Viktor walks back into the bookshop the next day. He looks—frazzled, if she can use that word—but when he sees her sitting behind the counter he lights up with a smile that makes it feel like the sun just walked into the shop. Hermione’s heart gives a great leap and she stands up from behind the counter hastily, very nearly knocking her books right off.

“Viktor! I didn’t expect to see you back,” Hermione says, and then amends quickly, “so soon, I mean! I thought that it would take you much longer to read Eliot.”

“I read all night,” Viktor admits with a small smile. “He’s most interesting.”

That is not what Hermione expected. That is not it at all. “I’m glad,” she says, for lack of anything better to say. “So—did you come back for another book?”

If she didn’t know better she’d think Viktor looked disappointed. “Yes! Yes, of course,” he says. “I will take anything that you recommend.”

So she gives him Much Ado About Nothing, which he loves and quotes frequently. After that it’s Jane Eyre, which he doesn’t like nearly as much, though Hermione sees a touch of the gothic, taciturn Mr. Rochester in Viktor’s tendency toward melancholy silence and contemplation. So despite all Viktor’s protestations that he isn’t a reader Hermione begins to suspect that he really does like books. Or something else is going on. He’s in the bookshop every day for a week. For short works he comes in to ask for a new book; for Pride and Prejudice he comes in to despair loudly about how stupid Mr. Darcy must be to miss the beauty in front of him. 

“Elizabeth Bennett is a perfect woman!” Viktor says. “But he does nothing!”

“It’s because he thinks she’s beneath him,” Hermione points out.

Viktor scoffs. “He is even stupider than I thought,” he says. “A woman like Miss Bennett would be the greatest woman in the world.” And the way he looks at her gives Hermione the shivers.

Her shop doesn’t attract many customers, so it’s quite diverting to have Viktor in the shop every single day. He insists, after Eliot, upon paying for all the books. Hermione gives him as many Muggle books as she can, and by the end of a fortnight Viktor is in possession of no fewer than eleven books (some of them having taken more than one day to read). It is about this time, after fourteen days of longing looks over books about romance, that Hermione realizes fully that this is not about books at all. 

“Viktor,” she says, when he comes in that day, “you aren’t here for books, are you.”

He freezes, looking startled and perhaps even frightened. “…no,” he says. “I told you before. I came here for you.”

Hermione swallows hard and nods. “Right,” she says. “In that case. Would you like to walk out and get lunch with me?”

“Of course,” Viktor says softly. “I had begun to think you would never ask.”

With a decisiveness she does not feel, Hermione steps out from behind the counter. She tucks her wand into her pocket and goes to the door. Viktor hurries ahead and opens it for her, a gentleman in his anxiousness to please. Hermione makes sure to lock up, though no one will bother the shop because it is located on this back end of Diagon Alley, far away from the hustle and bustle of Ollivander’s or Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. 

Side by side, they walk up the street in companionable silence. Hermione can't help but look up at her companion once in a while. He’s so tall that she can't quite see his full profile. However, she can definitely see the shy smile he casts her way whenever he looks down. No one notices them: there are far stranger sights in Diagon Alley than Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum. Even though both of them are quite famous, they're far enough from the spotlight that no one really cares. Viktor had left Quidditch the year after the end of the war. It was abrupt and he had given very little reason, only disappeared. It was to be assumed that he was living on the family estate, but no one—least of all Hermione—knew for sure.

And now here he is, following her to the café. It is a nice place, quiet and usually full of other quiet people like herself. The wizard who runs the place is kind to the house-elves who worked for him, all of whom are free and work out of pure enjoyment. They have holidays, as the proprietor had assured Hermione when she’d gotten rather fierce with him on finding out about the house-elves, and a wage (in a form that their culture accepts). This is therefore her favorite café. Also, they serve ginger tea exactly the way Hermione likes it, which is a bonus.

There are only a few other people in the café when Hermione and Viktor arrive. Viktor holds the door for her, and pulls out her chair so she can sit down. On any other man, it would look affected and silly, but on Viktor the air of a gentleman looks natural and right. They take a table by the window, where they can see the people passing by. Diagon Alley is busy, though not so busy as it will be in just a fortnight when all the students from Hogwarts arrive to buy books and wands and owls and all the other paraphernalia of school. 

When the house-elf comes to the table, Hermione asks for ginger tea and a scone. Viktor orders a coffee with nothing in it and a slice of lemon drizzle cake. They sit in a slightly awkward silence for a moment, waiting, and carefully not looking at each other. Hermione casts about for something to say and, for once, finds herself coming up short.

“You seem very happy here,” Viktor says, when he has coffee and cake in front of him.

Hermione takes a sip of the spicy tea, to give herself a moment of collection. “I am,” she says. “I like this. It’s quiet. Not…well. I think you know.” 

There are stories about what happened in Bulgaria during the war. Voldemort did not only have English followers, after all. Once upon a time, indeed, Karkaroff was a Death Eater.

“I do know,” Viktor says. A shadow passes over them, as such a shadow always does when the war comes to mind. And, as it always does, the shadow passes. “Do you see your friends often?”

“Oh, they come by sometimes,” Hermione says. “Harry and Neville are terribly busy, of course, but Luna does come to London often to write for the Quibbler. And Ginny—well…”

Viktor nods enthusiastically. “She’s quite the Chaser!” he says. “It is impossible not to hear of her exploits with the Holyhead Harpies! It’s enough to make me wish to go back to playing Quidditch, just so I could see her from the view of a broomstick instead of the stands.”

They fall to talking about Quidditch then, and though Hermione lacks a certain passion for the sport she enjoys listening to Viktor’s effusive praise of Ginny and play-by-play analysis of the last World Cup. He draws diagrams on the paper tablecloth, tracing squiggly arrows and lines with the tip of a wand. It so reminds Hermione of Ron and Harry’s long-ago aggrieved stories of Oliver Wood’s diagrams that she simply has to laugh. Once a Quidditch player, always a Quidditch player.

“They have an amateur summer league, you know,” Hermione says, when Viktor finally runs out of steam and sits back to drink his now-cold coffee. “Harry and Ron play with some other enthusiasts. They don’t see the point in giving up Quidditch just because they can’t play professionally.”

“What an idea,” Viktor muses. “I should enjoy that.”

Hermione takes a deliberate bite of scone to stop herself from telling him that he should stay until next summer. Surely he has things to do in Bulgaria. He can’t stay in England forever. “They don’t have amateur leagues in Bulgaria?”

Viktor shakes his head. “If there are, I never considered joining one.” 

“I always liked to watch you play,” Hermione says boldly. “You were quite good.”

“No more so than your Harry.”

“I went to Quidditch matches to support my friend, not because I liked Quidditch,” Hermione says. “When I went to see you play, I fell in love with the sport.” And you, she thinks, but does not add.

He may have heard it anyway, because the smile that breaks across his face is so real and beautiful that it takes Hermione’s breath away. 

***

By some strange miracle, Viktor finds the courage to ask Hermione if he might treat her to dinner. She accepts. He reserves a table at a nice restaurant, and paces around his small rented flat, and panics for half an hour about whether or not his dress robes would be too formal. It’s therefore another strange miracle that he manages to be on Hermione’s doorstep at seven o’clock sharp, somewhere between casual dress and formal. 

She lives in a flat above the bookshop, and so he waits at the bookshop door for her. She comes out dressed in nice Muggle clothes, a dress and heels that make her look worldly and sophisticated. It is not something Viktor is familiar with, this wearing of Muggle clothes rather than wizardly robes, but when Hermione does it, it seems the height of fashion. “Sorry I’m a little late,” she says breathlessly. “I hope we haven’t missed our reservation—?”

“We will not miss it if we Apparate,” Viktor says. Cautiously, unsure of his reception, he offers his arm to Hermione. “Do you mind Side-Along?”

“Oh no,” she says, and firmly links her elbow through his, “I think it’s better this way.”

With a crispness that he normally does not give to Apparition, Viktor turns smartly on the spot and a mere moment later they appear near the door of the restaurant. When Viktor tries to detach himself from Hermione, knowing how much she prefers independence, she does not let him go. Instead, she holds his arm more tightly, a dark blush rising in her cheeks. No words are exchanged, but Viktor distinctly feels the flutter of absolute adoration somewhere inside his chest. 

He holds the door for her, and pulls out her chair, and sits down across from her only when he’s sure that she is settled. This is the sort of place where there are no menus and orders, but instead dishes that magically appear at the table, by order of the chefs. With a fully magical service, it means that there are no interruptions to their conversation. 

And oh, what a conversation it is. Hermione is intelligent and educated in so many subjects, and has opinions are everything, it seems. Viktor would be glad to listen to her for hours, if she wanted, but she does not talk over him. Rather, she asks him about the books he’s read, asks him his opinion of them all and expects a thorough answer. Viktor gives her what he can. He’s always been better suited to studies of the Dark Arts, has been accused of being better suited for life as a Death Eater or worse than for life as an upright man of good society. But this is what Hermione wants, and what he is glad to give, and somehow she understands his muddled thoughts. 

He does not even notice what he has eaten.

Of course Viktor takes Hermione home, delivering her to her doorstep. “I should bid you a good night,” he says, as she unlocks the door.

Hermione looks up at him. “I’d like not to,” she says quietly. “Would you like to come up and have a cup of tea?”

Viktor thinks that his eyes must fall out and roll away, but he nods frantically, and follows Hermione to the back of the bookshop and up the stairs to her flat. He does not know what to expect, or what he ought to expect, so all he does is take care not to tread on her heels or crowd her when she opens the door to admit him. The flat is just like her: warm and bright and full of books. She lights golden lights with an absent flick of her wand, and offers him a seat on a squashy couch piled with pillows and blankets set before a fireplace. 

“Do you mind if I put on something more comfortable?” Hermione asks, hesitating in the door. 

“Of course not,” Viktor says. She disappears, and he takes the opportunity to loosen his robes a bit to make them more comfortable. He wonders briefly what “more comfortable” means and feels his face heat up with embarrassment at some of the things his mind suggests. He’s so absorbed in trying not to think of such things that he nearly misses it when Hermione comes back into the room.

“Sorry that took so long—I just don’t want to wear heels in the house, do you want tea?” she asks in a great rush. Viktor looks up and his mouth falls open. She’s wearing pants now, instead of her dress, and a stunningly familiar shirt. 

“Is that my old Quidditch jersey?” 

Hermione claps her hands to her face. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten,” she squeaks. “It’s terribly comfortable, if you mind I can always go and change—”

Viktor rises to his feet and in two steps is standing before her. “I couldn’t be happier to see you wearing it,” he says. “It looks wonderful on you.”

Through her fingers, she peeks at him. “You’re just saying that.”

“I do not believe in insincerity,” Viktor says. “You are beautiful, Hermione.”

She lowers her hands and looks up at him. “Thank you,” she says. “Truly, Viktor.”

They stare at each other for a lingering moment. 

“I believe you mentioned tea,” Viktor says at last, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Oh! Yes, tea,” Hermione says. “I’ll just—let me get that—what kind of tea—never mind, I only have—do you mind ginger?” She takes a step backwards, knocks into a bookshelf, catches herself, and promptly trips over the carpet.

Viktor catches her by the elbow before she can fall out the window. “Ginger is fine,” he says, steadying her. He can sympathize: if his reflexes were not so highly trained from years on a broomstick, he would probably have toppled into the fire.

There’s a few minutes of harried clattering and clanking in the kitchen. Viktor resumes his seat on the couch, feeling distinctly twitchy. He waits until Hermione comes back in, two steaming mugs of tea in her hands. She hands one to him, and their fingers brush in the transfer, and Viktor shivers.

“Incendio,” Hermione murmurs, flicking her wand with magnificent economy. A delightful blaze starts up in the fireplace, just the right mix of radiant warmth, golden light, and low crackling to create an atmosphere of absolute comfort. 

“Thank you for the tea,” Viktor says after a few moments. 

Hermione nods at him over the rim of the mug, eyes luminous in the firelight. “Of course,” she says. His jersey—his old Quidditch jersey, will he never recover from the thought?—is too large for her, but the faded scarlet of the fabric makes her look regal, even though she’s half curled on a couch with a blanket over her lap. “I should be thanking you. For dinner.”

“No need for thanks,” Viktor says. He thinks frantically, feeling like he’s trying to keep pace with her even though this is just a quiet conversation by the fire. “It was—nice. To have company. To spend time with you.”

“I’d almost forgotten how nice it is to spend an evening with somebody,” Hermione admits. 

Surely there are others. There must be. “Have you no other—ah—dates?” Viktor asks.

“No,” Hermione says. She looks distantly into the fire. “There hasn’t been much time for that.”

“Then I’m glad I came to London,” Viktor says, and is rewarded with a brilliant smile. 

“So am I,” Hermione says. “I missed you, you know. When we stopped writing each other, and then after that.”

Viktor sets his half-empty mug of tea aside. “And I you,” he says. “I would have liked to have danced with you at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but…”

“Harry got in the way,” Hermione says with an exasperated sigh. Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up—had that really been Harry Potter? “Yes, it was him, under some disguise, I can’t recall what we used.”

“He was only trying to protect his friends,” Viktor feels obliged to point out. 

“Still. He ought to have been less of a busybody.” There is silence for a few moments, and then Hermione asks, “Did you ever finish that copy of Leaves of Grass?” 

Viktor considers that. “I finished it, if you mean I closed its covers,” he says.

Hermione laughs, setting her own mug of tea—almost certainly empty—on the floor beside the couch. “I don’t blame you, it’s so American. I just can’t imagine anyone from Europe writing something so intense. But I was only wondering if you’d read up to the very end of the Song of Myself…?”

“No,” Viktor admits. 

“Here it is,” Hermione says. She pauses for a beat, as if collecting herself, and then recites the line: “Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

***

Hermione doesn’t wait for Viktor to say anything. She might fall apart out of sheer cowardice if she does. So she does what she does best: talks. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” Hermione says. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger as she talks, a nervous gesture. “There was something unfinished about the whole thing. You went home and I thought I was never going to see you again, so I…settled. I had much more frightening things to think about. Voldemort, you know. And then after that…there was so much to do, so many people who wanted me to be someone, and I thought I had to be that someone. Now I’m not…I’m just a nobody, and—”

“You are someone,” Viktor says, cutting in. Hermione cuts off her next words before they can tumble out of her mouth, making a horribly undignified squeak. “Believe me, Hermione, you could not be a nobody if you tried.”

“I run a bookshop on the farthest end of Diagon Alley,” Hermione feels compelled to point out. “I don’t think I quite count as anybody.”

“Then neither do I,” Viktor says. He’s moved quite close, and though it’s been a long time the proximity still feels familiar. “I do not play Quidditch anymore. I am not a war hero like you. But I am still somebody, yes?”

Hermione nods. “Yes,” she says. “But—”

“Enough,” Viktor says, and quite gently pulls Hermione toward him and kisses her. 

She melts. 

He doesn’t try to touch her any more than she would ever want to be touched—is he a Legilimens, or simply that respectful and lovely? This is right, it’s good, it’s perfect. Hermione doesn’t even have words for how wonderful this is, how wonderful Viktor is. 

When he leans back, looking suddenly unsure, Hermione feels a touch airless. “So nothing’s changed, then,” she says, after taking a moment to collect herself. “You still…even after all this time?”

“You’re wearing my Quidditch jersey,” Viktor says with a small smile. “I do not think you have any room to talk, Hermione.”

She thinks she’s blushing again, so instead of trying to say anything she pulls a thick, warm blanket over her lap and throws it also over his. Viktor, quite naturally, puts his arm around her shoulders and draws her close. It’s very peaceful, sitting with him like that, and Hermione is getting quite drowsy when Crookshanks meows crossly from the window. 

Viktor jumps, severely startled, and has his wand out in half a second. Hermione snatches his hand before he can jinx her cat. “It’s only Crookshanks!” she says. “He does like to roam around Diagon Alley, so I leave the window open. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

The cat leaps to the floor from the windowsill with a thud and pads in solid majesty to leap up onto Hermione’s lap. He lands heavily, paws in all the softest bits of her legs, and she winces. Normally, the cat just settles down, but tonight he peers solemnly at Viktor for a long moment instead. He even growls a little.

“…should I worry about your cat?” Viktor asks, visibly alarmed.

“He can be a bit unfriendly at times, with people he doesn’t know,” Hermione says. She pets Crookshanks’ back, soothing. “It’s only Viktor, Crookshanks dear. You remember him, right?”

Crookshanks studies Viktor for a moment longer, and then begins to rub his head against Viktor’s side, demanding attention. Viktor pets Crookshanks, bemused. The cat steps neatly onto Viktor’s lap, curls up into a ball of orange fur, and purrs. “I believe he likes me.”

Hermione snuggles down into Viktor’s side again. “Of course he does,” she says, a bit hazy and already drowsing off again. “It’s you. You’re quite likeable.”

She just feels Viktor kiss the top of her head as she closes her eyes, feeling quite safe. “So are you,” he murmurs. 

When Hermione awakens the next morning, to sunlight streaming in through the windows past all of the house plants—magical and mundane—she has growing on the windowsills and in hanging pots, she’s still on the couch. Viktor is behind her, holding her securely in his arms, very much asleep. She’s not inclined to move at all, not when this is the best morning she’s had in such a long time. 

And when Viktor wakes up, he’s so embarrassed that he tries to leave, and Hermione practically has to manhandle him into her tiny kitchen for breakfast. He proves to be earnestly, endearingly helpful in the making of the food, even though just about all Hermione has on hand is toast and jam. They have toast and tea for breakfast. When Hermione stands too long by the window watching the owls coming in to roost at the Owlery down the street Viktor makes some comment about Eliot’s “Portrait of a Lady” and whatever it is, though she can never recall afterwards what he said, it makes her laugh. 

He leaves, when she goes down to open the bookshop for the day, promising to come back and take her to dinner again, if she’d like that—or she could take him, is there a Muggle restaurant she’d prefer? And Hermione takes him out into Muggle London that night, Transfiguring his robes into something more suitable. Nobody looks twice at them, and the anonymity is refreshing all over again. 

Things go on like this for another two weeks, and somehow Viktor is still in London when the end-of-August rush for school supplies begins. The streets are flooded with families, and suddenly Hermione’s bookshop sees an upswing in business as Muggle parents discover that she runs an establishment that caters to them. Viktor offers his help after one particularly harried day, and then after that he simply stays, shelving the books that customers leave off the shelves and meticulously helping her with her admittedly esoteric alphabetizing system. 

He stays later and later. One night, he insists on making dinner for her, and will hardly let her into the kitchen while he prepares something he calls moussaka. Viktor’s kitchen magic is economical and simple, but better than Hermione’s. The dish is simple—potatoes, minced pork, and spices, all covered with a sauce of yogurt and eggs—but Hermione thinks it might be the best thing she’s ever eaten. 

“There’s a joke among men, in my country,” Viktor says. “They say you should not marry a woman who cannot cook a perfect moussaka.”

“Well, I’m right off the table, then,” Hermione says flippantly.

Viktor shrugs. “If a single dish is all we need, then I can cook it just as well.”

It takes a moment for both of them to realize what he said, and when the epiphany arrives both of them stammer, blush, and can’t look each other in the eye for the rest of the night. This precipitates a new change. A few days after this, Hermione musters up the courage to ask Viktor if he’d like to move into her flat with her.

“I know it’s quite small, but I wouldn’t mind sharing it with you, if you wanted,” she babbles, nerves taking over. “You’re already over so frequently and since you aren’t going back to Bulgaria very soon, I only thought—”

“I have no plans to go back to Bulgaria.”

“…what?”

Viktor shrugs. “It is a little stupid, perhaps. I was restless. If you had not wanted to see me, I would have traveled, or gone to Durmstrang to take a position as a teacher. Either way, I did not plan to stay in Bulgaria any longer.”

“You mean—Viktor, do you mean you’ve been here all this time just because of me?”

“Yes,” he says. 

He moves in that very day.

***

The time passes swiftly, once Viktor has moved in. He has very little in the way of personal effects, and he discovers to his delight that he fits neatly into the empty places in Hermione’s life. There is a great deal of unspoken agreement happening here. They assume that they will share a bed—though they’re both touch-shy enough that nothing but sleeping happens—just as they assume that Viktor will continue to quietly work in the bookshop with Hermione.

He knows the day that word gets out around Diagon Alley that Viktor Krum is working in Hermione Granger’s bookshop because suddenly dozens of people turn up, intensely interested in books. He sighs and makes the best of it, making himself scarce when he can and pointedly ignoring stares and whispers when he can’t. Hermione, who notices rapidly what’s going on, finally stands on the counter and announces loudly that anyone here to stare at Viktor is quite welcome to leave, immediately. Half of the crowd departs so fast they might as well have Apparated. After that, they only get the occasional tourist who wanders in to stare awkwardly from the recipe section.

They ignore it all after the initial rush. They’re entirely too happy with each other. Viktor is horrified to discover that Hermione lives almost entirely on toast and tea, and soon enough he does a vast majority of the cooking. For her part, Hermione is just as horrified to discover that Viktor really has no concept of a “circadian rhythm”, and starts setting things like “bedtimes” and “alarms”. The first few times that he wakes up sleep-fogged and bleary, having stayed up too late the night prior, Hermione opens the shop late and stays in bed with him, reading and taking notes on her books. After that, though, her sympathy disappears and she hauls him downstairs, tired or not, to start the day. It takes a couple of weeks, but Viktor adjusts. Hermione stops looking quite so bony, face rounding out and body gaining a few more pleasant curves. While Viktor complains about Hermione’s insistence on a strict sleep schedule, she never once says anything against his cooking.

Things progress in this fashion for a month or two. Viktor delves into the intricacies of English cooking. Hermione starts an intensely cordial correspondence war in the “Letters to the Editor” of the Daily Prophet. Viktor reads her missives and, on occasion, corrects her spelling or grammar. She writes too fast and makes mistakes. Every time, she thanks him with a kiss before giving it to her owl and sending it off to the editor to be published. 

Hermione gets them tickets to see a play at the Globe—The Tempest—and they alternate between being enraptured at the performance and giggling at the inaccuracies of magic in the show like they’re children. Because they have groundling tickets, they have to stand for the whole performance, and Viktor ends up warding off wayward elbows and leers from others on the floor of the theater. Hermione laughs at his disgruntlement, but holds his hand tightly the whole way home.

The Quidditch World Cup comes, and because it’s being held in America this year they do not attend. Viktor follows all the news with intense scrutiny, and Hermione ends up making toast for a week running because he utterly forgets to eat in all the excitement. They go to a pub the night of the Cup, and when the Holyhead Harpies tear the American National Quidditch Team apart Viktor is cheering the loudest. 

He’s rather forgotten that there is a wider world beyond this tiny edifice they’ve created, and is therefore thoroughly surprised when an invitation suddenly arrives from Ginny. “She wants us to come to a banquet in celebration of the Cup victory!” Hermione says, reading over the invitation at breakfast. 

“Us?” 

“Well, me, and then there’s a very nice postscript saying that I can bring a plus-one if I happen to have one.” At that, Hermione looks rueful. “Have I really been such a recluse?”

“Yes,” Viktor says with a small smile. He takes the invitation from her and scans it. The postscript is very kind, indeed. The rest of the invitation is quite formal, but the postscript is written in what he can only assume to be Ginny’s own hand. “Will you go alone?”

Hermione makes a sound of indignation. “Viktor Krum, do you really think that after all this time I’d just leave you out of something like this?”

The answer is an uncertain yes, but he does not say that out loud. He still cannot quite believe that he is here, with Hermione, and that she—well, that he loves her. As they turn their attention to fixing up his dress robes and finding Hermione something nice to wear, a strange plan begins to take shape in Viktor’s mind. It may be ill-advised, but then—so was coming to England in the first place, and look how that has turned out. 

He finds a pretext, two days later, while Hermione is restocking some of the books, to go out alone. Viktor makes his way into Muggle London, where no one will recognize him, and goes to a jeweler’s. He feels strange, out of place staring into the vast glass cases full of jewelry, but a woman flutters up to him just as he’s thinking of leaving. 

“Can I help you?”

“Ah—yes,” Viktor says. “I am looking for a…ring.”

The woman smiles. “Oh, yes. A ring for a special someone?”

“Yes,” he says, feeling that he might be blushing.

“Come with me,” the woman says kindly. “I’ll help you find what you’re looking for.”

When Viktor leaves the store and makes his way back to Diagon Alley, there is a small box in his pocket. Every time he feels its tiny weight brush against his leg, he flinches a little. He’s afraid of what’s in that box, of what it signifies, but at the same time his heart is lighter when he thinks of it. 

The ring is simple, elegant: silver set with three small opals. They shimmer a rainbow of colors in the light, and it’s pleasing. Viktor knows what opals symbolize: inspiration, clarity of thought, luck, and fidelity. Crushed opals can be substituted for Occamy eggshell in a Felix Felicis potion, and having tried the potion both ways Viktor can safely say that he prefers the opal concoction. 

But this is all distraction: he has a plan, now, of how he will give this ring to Hermione. He will have to prepare something to say, because he is no extemporaneous speaker. It will be worth it. It must be worth it. He thinks that his feelings are returned, even if they have not spoken of it. And he will make his proposal somewhere private, in case they are not returned, so that she is not embarrassed. They will be fine, in the end. 

Viktor prepares for the banquet in a rush of well-hidden nerves. He does not think that Hermione notices; Viktor has always been good at focusing on the goal, rather than his fears. That is what a good Seeker does, and he was one of the best Seekers. Hermione will have no idea of his plans.

***

Something is suspicious about Viktor. 

He’s being intensely secretive, looking around guiltily at all times, and if Hermione didn’t know better she’d think he has some kind of dark secret. She doesn’t pry, though. In a flat as small as this, there’s very little privacy to begin with. If he wants to keep a secret—let him.

The evening of the banquet, Hermione finds herself unaccountably nervous. She does her hair six different ways, nervously chewing on her lip as she stares at herself in the mirror, trying elegant updos and soft waves and box braids, unsatisfied with them all. Finally, Viktor comes in, gently takes her wand from her hand, and says, “Your hair is lovely as it is.”

“It doesn’t look fancy enough.”

“It is beautiful. You will look wonderful. I think so, and so will your friends.”

Finally, Hermione gives up and leaves her curls as they are, enormous and full. It’s not something that ought to make her nervous—after all, hadn’t she worn her hair this way all of her professional life?—but her nerves are infecting everything. Her dress, a Muggle-styled confection of silk and chiffon in periwinkle blue that only sustains its structure via application of tailoring charms, is dissatisfactory. She nearly changes her shoes, cannot decide on earrings, and nearly forgets how she wears makeup.

Viktor, in his severe and strictly traditional dress robes, does not have any of these problems.

Hermione is unbelievably jealous.

The venue is a grand hall, ablaze with a thousand floating lights. Banners hang from the walls in the colors of the Holyhead Harpies, their broomsticks have been mounted for all to see, and the Golden Snitch that won the World Cup zips through the air overhead in a triumphant race. Everyone who’s anyone is there. The Minister of Magic is cheerfully chatting with the Headmistress of Hogwarts (not Minerva McGonagall, because she had retired a few years ago to live with Madame Pomfrey over by the seaside). There are Quidditch players by the dozen: every one of the brilliant Holyhead Harpies as well as the full British, Irish, and Australian Quidditch teams, a few loud-but-gracious Americans, and others. And there are referees, famous veterans, broomstick manufacturers, and more. As they come in the doors Hermione feels quite faint and clutches at Viktor’s arm. “I didn’t expect quite this crowd,” she whispers.

“Neither did I,” Viktor whispers back. 

It’s only a moment later that the staring starts as people realize that Viktor and Hermione have entered the room. Hermione is well aware that the attention comes for many reasons: she’s the famous Hermione Granger, there’s someone with Hermione Granger, that someone is Viktor Krum, and Viktor Krum is still famous in the circles of these Quidditch players. By all rights, he should have received an invitation on his own, and if he had no one would have batted an eye. Instead, this is the situation in which they find themselves.

They are rescued from the increasing awkwardness by the sudden entrance of Ginny onto the scene. “Hermione!” she shrieks, delighted, flinging her arms around Hermione. “I got the RSVP but still—you came!”

“Of course I did! Congratulations!” Hermione says, holding Ginny out at arm’s length, inspecting her friend. She looks lovely in green and gold: all of the Harpies are wearing dresses that mimic the colors of their official uniforms. “It was a wonderful match!”

“I’m surprised you watched it, Hermione,” Harry says, coming up and giving her a squeeze. He and Ginny didn’t last, but of course he’s been invited, too. With the exception of Ron and Hermione, the breakups haven’t affected their friendships all too much. “I thought you weren’t one for Quidditch!”

Hermione elbows him lightly. He looks well in a Muggle suit and tie, if a touch out of place in this room full of dress robes. “I am not, but I am one for my friends.”

Ginny gives a meaningful look between Viktor and Hermione. “Friends?”

“Oh! Yes—Viktor agreed to come with me tonight,” Hermione says, stepping back to take his hand. She feels suddenly breathless, as if waiting for a severe judgement. There’s Ginny and Harry, of course, and Luna and Neville have made their way out of the crowd. Luna’s got someone Hermione doesn’t recognize on her arm, a tall thin man with ginger curls who doesn’t look the slightest bit like a Weasely and definitely has a Bowtruckle in his lapel instead of a flower. And she’d swear that she sees Ron’s red hair across the room. 

“It’s good to see you,” Harry says heartily, offering his hand. 

Viktor shakes it with a smile. “How is teaching, Professor?”

Harry groans and claps a hand to his head. “Don’t call me that, it makes me feel old.”

“Well, the students certainly think you are,” Neville says, throwing an arm over Harry’s shoulders with a grin. “They keep asking me if Professor Potter really knew Dumbledore.”

“And your students keep running to me for help when the Venomous Tentaculas try to eat them!” Harry’s laugh is heartwarming to hear. Hermione remembers a time when he didn’t laugh much, if at all, and it does her heart good to see him happy.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna says serenely. She’s all in ethereal white, though there are grass stains around the knees and there’s a beautifully woven crown of dandelions in her hair. “How’s the bookshop?”

“Oh, fine,” Hermione says. “How was your world tour looking for Nargles?”

Luna smiles up at the man beside her. “Well, I didn’t find Nargles, but I found Rolf.”

He offers a hand and an earnest smile. “Rolf Scamander,” he says as Hermione shakes his hand. “I presume you’re the famous Hermione Granger?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, uncomfortable.

Viktor must see it, because his grip on her hand tightens and he says jovially, “Are you related to the Mr. Scamander who wrote that book—what was it—Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them?” 

Rolf groans melodramatically, adopting a wounded air. “Someday people will mention my book, instead of my grandfather’s!” 

Hermione looks around at all of her friends. It’s so good to see them together. Neville and Harry laughing together about their adventures as teachers at Hogwarts, Ginny and Luna discoursing on the habitat and behavioral patterns of real harpies, Viktor conversing in a most amused fashion with this Rolf Scamander. He seems to fit in quite well with it all. Though people still watch them—they’re all war heroes and celebrities, after all—no one dares to intrude on this inner circle. Whatever nervousness Hermione had been carrying begins to relax. 

And then she spots Ron and Lavender moving through the crowd toward them.

With an undignified squeak, Hermione tries to step behind Viktor, trips over the hem of her dress, and nearly goes crashing to the floor. With his Seeker’s reflexes, Viktor catches her. “What is it?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Hermione says hurriedly, straightening herself out. 

Because he is rightfully suspicious, Viktor looks around. She knows when he sees Ron, because he falls terribly still—whether with nerves or with frustration or with something else, she doesn’t know. She knows that her trembling is from renewed nerves. This is what she’d been afraid of, really, having to face Ronald Weasley, the famous war-hero-turned-Auror, once known as Harry Potter’s best friend and Hermione Granger’s boyfriend, now known and adored only as himself. 

There’s a frightening moment when Ron and Lavender come up. At first, Harry and Neville are practically jubilant, telling Ron how glad they were to see him and Ginny is playfully scolding her brother for being late and Luna is introducing herself to Lavender while Rolf looks on in pleasant puzzlement, and then Ron notices Viktor. 

“Oh—hello,” he says, holding out a hand for Viktor to shake.

Viktor is visibly wary. Hermione does not blame him in the slightest. But he shakes Ron’s hand, firmly. “Good to see you.”

That’s when Ron meets Hermione’s eyes, and she’s expecting something to crack in her chest or to see anger in his eyes, but instead—

“It’s so good to see you,” Lavender says, pushing past Viktor to pull Hermione into a hug.

Hermione is stunned. “You, too,” she says, returning the hug, so confused that she thinks she’ll fall over. This wasn’t what she’d expected. But here’s Lavender, sedate and grown-up, wearing a dress that bares her shoulders and shows off her scars for the whole world to see. 

Viktor’s hand comes to rest on the small of Hermione’s back, steadying her. She’s aware of everyone else watching with bated breath. Ginny—who’d been Hermione’s greatest defender after the breakup—looks ready to tear Ron apart with her teeth, Harry and Ron are visibly prepared to drag Ron out of the room, and even Luna looks worried. 

Lavender turns to Ron with a smile. “Sorry, I think I cut in line,” she says gracefully. And then she gives her husband an unceremonious shove to stand right in front of Hermione.

Ron is so flustered that he’s red straight to the roots of his hair. “Hermione,” he says, looking down at her in what might just be panic. 

“…Ron.”

“Are you…and him…” Ron waves vaguely between Hermione and Viktor.

“Yes,” Hermione says. “And we’re very happy.”

That’s when Ron breaks into a grin. “Oh, thank Merlin. Congratulations.”

“What—” She can’t even finish her question before Ron sweeps her into a hug that practically pulls her off her feet. There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s just a hug, a hug from Hermione’s absolute best friend, who she hasn’t seen or spoken to in more than a year, and she’s missed him so badly—

Viktor quietly gives her a handkerchief when Ron finally lets her go. Everyone else is courteous enough not to comment on the fact that Hermione can’t quite stop crying. She can’t let go of Viktor’s hand, either, and he doesn’t make any move to try to let her go. 

***

There is dinner, and dancing, and Viktor finds himself quite easily accepted into the group. He, like Luna’s sweetheart, is not “one of them”; that is, he did not fight at the Battle of Hogwarts or confront Voldemort face to face. But that does not seem to matter. Harry draws him into conversation about what he’s been doing in the last couple of years. Ron and Ginny talk on and on about Quidditch, about the match and the rest of the team. Hermione and Luna and Lavender laugh together like they’re schoolgirls again. Rolf and Neville strike up a conversation that, after some false starts, finds enthusiastic common ground on the subject of exotic plants.

Viktor is growing more and more nervous as the night wears on. The ring box in his pocket is heavy and very nearly impossible to ignore. No one notices; there are some benefits to being a commonly quiet sort of man. And amid the glorious bustle and elegance of the evening, he is even less noticeable than usual. 

In a moment of sheer desperation, Viktor pulls Harry away from the rest, out of easy view behind some convenient draperies. “I need your help,” he says, without preliminaries. 

“Yeah, what do you need?” Harry asks, immediately concerned. 

“I am—I have—” Viktor glances around to ensure that Hermione isn’t looking, and pulls the ring box from his pocket. “I do not know how to—”

“Mate, is that a ring?” Harry asks, eyes wide. “Are you sure Hermione’s ready for that?”

Viktor is not sure. “Would I have it if I did not think she wanted it?”

Harry massages his head. “All right. Mind if I get some help? I’ve never done this before.”

“Go, go,” Viktor says. He’s fairly sure he’s going to die.

After a few moments, Harry returns with Luna in tow. “Right,” he says, “she’s much better than I am at things like this.”

“I think it’s lovely that you and Hermione are going to get married,” Luna says, smiling gently at Viktor and patting his arm comfortingly. “And I know just the way to help you.”

She comes up with a plan, and sends Harry off to dance with Hermione, so that he can assuage his own worries about the speed of this engagement. Luna points out to Viktor the large glass doors across the hall, which she tells him lead onto a balcony, where very few people have gone. She advises him not to take himself too seriously, which he takes under advisement, and to avoid the machinations of Head-Climbing Sneedles, which he does not. He’s to lead Hermione there, after a slow dance, and make his move once well out of sight and in privacy.

“Hermione wouldn’t like to make such a decision so publicly,” Luna says. “Of course, I’m very sure she’ll say yes, but you still should let her out of the public eye.”

Viktor does as she says. He waits until Harry has finished his dance with Hermione, then asks her courteously if she’ll grant him this one. She does, and together they take the floor. Viktor finds that he cannot look her in the eye, though he desperately wants to, and keeps his gaze pinned firmly two inches to her right. Her hand is warm in his. She feels terribly fragile, where his hands guide her, though he knows quite well how strong she is. 

“Is everything all right?” Hermione asks after a moment. 

“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” Viktor says. In counterpoint, the ring box in his pocket strikes his leg.

Hermione sighs. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

“I am nervous,” Viktor admits. “There are things…I am not a man of words, Hermione.”

“Well, I’m not a Legilimens,” Hermione says. “I can’t read your mind.”

Viktor glances at her, meeting her eyes briefly. “I should speak plainly, then.”

She squeezes his hand. “Go on.”

He steels his nerve. There is still time for flight, if he wishes it so. But no: he has never been a coward, and he does not intend to begin now. “I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange?”

“Oh,” Hermione says weakly. She stumbles in the step of the dance; he catches her. She stares at him with round eyes. “As strange as the thing I know not.”

They are fumbling through the scene—Much Ado About Nothing, Act 4, Scene 1. It’s out of order, and half the lines are missing, but still—“I will make him eat it that says I love not you.”

“Will you not eat your word?” Hermione asks. They are near the wall; they have almost stopped moving, having forgotten the whole rest of the room, each gazing into the other’s eyes.

Viktor feels almost faint. “With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee.”

Hermione’s eyes shine. “Why, then, God forgive me,” she whispers.

“What offense, sweet Hermione?”

She begins to cry again, smiling through it. “Oh, Viktor, I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

He draws her into an embrace. They’ll skip the “kill Claudio” part, he hopes. Over Hermione’s head, Viktor can see her friends watching from a distance, as if to ensure that all is well. Luna makes a shooing motion toward the balcony doors, echoed by Harry and Lavender. So they all know, then. His nerves twang like a poorly-played harp.

“Shall we go outside?” he whispers to her. 

“Please,” Hermione says, sniffling. 

He guides her out to the balcony, which is empty though well-lit by the golden light of the hall spilling out onto it. Surreptitiously, Viktor slides a hand into his pocket while Hermione composes herself. This is the moment.

“I think I knew, but…this makes it seem much more real,” Hermione says, staring off the balcony into the night. “How long…”

“I would like to say forever, but that would be an exaggeration,” Viktor says.

Hermione laughs. “I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d said that, so.”

“I do remember the Yule Ball,” Viktor says. “Your dress—in my memories, it is the same color as the one you wear tonight.”

She leans against the rail. “I think it was. Not as nice as this, though.”

“You looked like a princess,” Viktor says sincerely.

“I don’t—”

“You did then and you do now,” he says, taking one of her hands. “A princess.”

Hermione pulls her hands away from him and covers her face in embarrassment. “Viktor…”

This is his opportunity. While she is not looking, he drops to one knee. When she looks up, her eyes fly wide. “Hermione…as I said, I am no man of words. So I will be brief. These are private words, addressed to you in public. Eliot—‘A Dedication to My Wife’. Hermione Granger, will you marry me?”

There is a stricken moment of silence. Then Hermione flings her arms around him, sending them both crashing to the ground. He can’t understand what she’s saying, and then he hears it: “Yes! Yes, Viktor, of course I’ll marry you!”

***

She is so ecstatic, the ring of silver and opals on her finger, Viktor’s hand clutched in hers, that she hears almost nothing when they come back inside. Luna is first in line to give her a hug. Rolf shakes their hands, congratulatory if still bewildered, while Harry, ever audacious, gives Viktor a back-thumping squeeze. Lavender embraces Hermione and wishes her well, while Ron manages a pat on her shoulder and quiet congratulations. Neville, beaming from ear to ear, offers to help them with houseplants as an eventual wedding gift. Ginny cheers them on, and tells them that she’ll make sure they have tickets to Harpies games for the rest of their lives. 

“What now?” Harry asks, when the initial furor has died down. “I mean, you two could do anything you wanted! Go anywhere.”

“Yeah, it’s you two,” Neville says. “Whatever you wanted!”

Hermione looks up and sees Viktor looking down, smiling at her. “Whatever Hermione wants,” he says, and her heart feels like it will explode. 

“I think,” she says deliberately, “that we’ll continue to run the bookshop.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Lavender says. “Do you mind visitors?”

“You might have to help shelve books,” Viktor warns. “That was how I was hired.”

“Ron—help me onto the table,” Ginny says suddenly. “I can’t get up in these bloody heels.”

Hermione watches, apprehensive, as Ron helps Ginny up. She balances, glass in her hand, and touches her wand to her throat. “Sonorous,” she mutters.

“What are you going to—” Neville starts, but Ginny speaks first, voice booming over the crowd.

“Excuse me!” Heads turn, every head, and suddenly they’re right in the spotlight of the whole room. “I know this is a celebration of our World Cup victory, but there’s something else rather exciting that’s happened tonight! Two of my dear friends have just gotten engaged, and I’d like to toast them! To Viktor and Hermione!”

Everyone in the hall raises their glasses. “To Viktor and Hermione!” Hermione is joyous, but Viktor looks as though he’d like to sink through the floor. She leans against him, steadying him, and he stops looking quite so pale. The toast is quick enough, since Ginny doesn’t have much to say other than dedicating the moment to Viktor and Hermione, but suddenly everyone is looking at Hermione.

“Anything to say?” Ginny asks, looking down from her perch on the table. 

Hermione pauses. If there’s anything to be said, then she’ll have to say it. Luckily, this is what she does best. “Thank you!” she says, casting a quick wordless Sonorous on herself. “For the well-wishes, for the evening, for everything. I won’t keep you long, since dancing is in order! Strike up, pipers!”

**Author's Note:**

> To you Quidditch nerds out there: I’m sorry. I ignored canon World Cup victors in favor of giving it to the Holyhead Harpies. Ginny deserves this one, okay. (I’m not sure what year this damn story takes place, anyway, so it’s all up in the air.) In canon, Viktor gets nice things anyway—Bulgaria kicked ASS in the 2014 World Cup!!! So either way he wins. :)
> 
> Also, shameless self-promotion: the reference to McGonagall and Pomfrey is to a fic I wrote last year! [You can find it right here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6172747) :)


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